Fic For All Entries
by Calex
Summary: A series of minis written for the TtH Fic For All 2004.
1. Cruel Punishments

Author: Calex

Title: Cruel Punishments

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Wes and co belong to Joss, Cissa and the rest of the Potter gang are JK Rowling's.

Pairing: #211 in TtH FFA, Wesley/Narcissa Malfoy

The party was going on in full swing, the world had been saved, after all. An evil madman had been "taken care of", and the children could finally sleep safe and sound in their beds again. In short, it had gotten to be quite boring. Narcissa sighed irritably as she surveyed the gaily dancing couples, heard the loud, raucous laughter and the incessant chat, chat, chat of the guests that attended the ministry thrown party. Bugger all of them, those who didn't carry shadows on their faces, the one making all of the bloody noise and brought all of that pomp and show.

Nine out of ten, their lives weren't _that_ affected by the-madman-who-is-now-no-more, they just went along for the ride. Nine out of ten of them hadn't been on that battlefield, flagging their guts out for their family's safety, for their country's safety. For mankind, wizard-kind. Nine out of ten hadn't smelt the charred human flesh, the stale sweat, the abundance of old and fresh blood, the damp stench of earth mixed with things she didn't want to think about. Nine out of ten hadn't felt the deadly exhaustion, the despair, the pain, hadn't tasted that bitter taste of _giving up_. More than a few had succumbed to that helplessness, that sense that what they were looking for didn't exist, that the fight was useless. Nine out of ten hadn't felt that pain, that anger, that _despair_ at losing a loved one. Nine out of ten knew _nothing_ of what war was like, of what real pain was like, suffering. And she… the most unlikely of sources… she knew far better than any of them.

Narcissa shook her head, a bitter smile playing at cruelly beautiful lips. It was irony, pure and simple, for her of all people to know what it was like. She, who many previously thought to be some arm-ornament to a pompous ministry official, who turned her nose up at everyone, for everyone was beneath her. She who had probably never lifted a finger to do menial work in her life, pampered, sheltered… spoilt. They knew nothing of her life, of _her_. Never knew just how determined and coldly calculating Narcissa Black Malfoy could be, had _had_ to be. Who knew the woman behind the mask, the charade? Few, oh so few knew. Sometimes… sometimes she herself didn't know. It was confusing work, trying to pretend to be someone she wasn't. But she had to say she was pretty damned good at it. She had fooled everyone, everyone. She'd even fooled the Dark Lord. She could still remember the shock and betrayal in Lucius' face as she'd hexed everyone in that little sinister _tête-à-tête_ in order to save Severus from getting grievously harmed. But she couldn't leave him for the Dark Lord to _crucio_ to death, Narcissa had precious few people she considered friends, so her best friend really was quite indispensable.

It was just too bad that the Dark Lord had taken her and Severus' betrayals so badly. She really _had_ loved her husband, once upon a time. She'd loved the man with his ideals, his cool eyes and cruel smile. She had given her heart to Lucius Malfoy when she was very young, when she knew nothing. It was only too bad that those ideals of his, that _family_ of his had brought him into the attention of Lord Voldemort. The man…thing had twisted her husband up, changed him. Narcissa knew her husband no longer long before that moment, but before she had apparated herself and Severus away, both of them holding their own injuries, her eyes had met Lucius' and understanding had passed between them. In that small moment, it was as though Lucius was as he was, years before, unchanged. Then the moment was broken by a hex thrown in her direction, and she had gotten the hell away after that. That was the last time she saw Lucius. Voldemort was a cruel master, and as he'd not had her to appease his wrath at, he took his anger out on Lucius, Lucius who had always been loyal to the Dark Lord's cause and knew nothing of his wife's deceit.

The next she saw of him was to identify his body… or what was left of it. Beautiful Lucius he was no longer, she couldn't even see her husband in that mangled corpse she had been brought to see. She saw the crest on the one remaining finger Voldemort had left him, though, and that one act of recklessness that Lucius had sported just before they got married. The tattoo, it's twin on her shoulder-blade. A small curving dragon, it's wings wrapped around itself. It still gleamed and glistened on his dirt and blood smeared forearm, the opposite to his dark mark. The silver scales were luminescent, and there seemed to be genuine pain in the dragon's eyes as it looked up at her, it's protector gone. Then it had closed it's eyes and the tattoo seemed to smoke before turning into something like a muggle tattoo, lifeless and one dimensional. She hadn't cried, not there, but the tears had come to her that night when she lay in her bed, ever alone.

The thoughts were far too morbid for her taste. Narcissa's fingers curled tighter around the stem of her champagne flute, then relaxed. She wouldn't think of bad things here, not now. The past, gone. It was over and done with…. But she still lived with the guilt of her husband's death on her conscience. She saved one man… and condemned the other. The life of her best friend for that of her husband. What a cruel price to pay. She hadn't been able to speak properly to Severus since then, seeing the man always made her… remember. Made her edgy. Guilt didn't sit well with Narcissa, she avoided it all she could. She was, mostly, a remorseless woman, cold. But she was still human, still felt, when the occasion rose for it. Her husband's death always left a bitter taste of guilt in her mouth, unaccustomed. She disliked it greatly. It inconvenienced her, this new conscience. She preferred being the amoral bitch she used to be.

"You shouldn't brood. Take it from me, I know that too much brooding can be tiresome."

Narcissa flicked an irritable glance backward, about to ream into the unfortunate man who disturbed her peace when she realised who it was. With a slow, almost comical (for him, at least. And he found it very comical) blink, she stared at the figure that had appeared next to her. The dark haired man offered her a grin. "Hello, Cissa."

"Merlin," she murmured, her face paling. "Hell's bells and beyond, Wesley. I… You're dead. You're supposed to be dead."

"I am, aren't I?" Wesley looked rueful. Then he grinned at her. "It's quite the day for one to see Narcissa Black sitting out a party. Even as…tiresome as this."

"Malfoy," she corrected absently, eyes still skimming over heartbreakingly familiar features. "What in Circe's name is going on, Wesley?"

"Well," he smiled, self-deprecatingly. "I was killed in a light vs. evil kind of war. That is to say, a good war. Fight the good fight and all that," he laughed ironically. "It seems the Powers That Be aren't quite done with me, yet."

"Power's That Be?" she inquired in a voice one would associate to be used in discussion about weather, or something equally as mundane.

"Hmm. What's this Malfoy business?"

"I married Luc, Wesley."

Wesley blinked.

"You married _Luc_? What in damnation were you thinking, woman?"

"I think the point is that I wasn't," she said, dryly. "I was hopelessly in love with him, at the time. Dazzled by him. He was quite the charismatic little fuckwit, back in the day. Good looking, as well."

"If you like the type," he muttered. "Did he cut that godawful hair of his?"

Narcissa threw back her head and laughed.

"No, I'm afraid. Luc was always vain about his hair."

Wesley made a face at her.

"I bet he started using a cane like his father did." At the look on Narcissa face, Wesley blanched. "Good Lord, he didn't."

"Oh yes," Narcissa smiled, slightly, wistfully. "I hated that bloody cane of his. Always told him that it made him look like a right prat. And the hair made him look like a goddamn pansy. But did he listen to me?" she snorted. "I think not. Someone should have hexed Edward Malfoy to death long before cousin Elspeth did."

Wesley grinned at his cousin, blue eyes that matched hers exactly gleaming with remembered mischief.

"It's not nice to think ill of the dead, Cissa." Then he frowned when he saw eyes darken. "What's wrong?"

"That's just what we were doing, Wesley." Her voice was soft as her eyes took in the party, fingers rubbing the base of her flute. "I'd almost forgotten, what with talking to you. But… that's exactly what we were doing. Luc's dead." The abruptness in her tone made him almost miss the last sentence. When it sank in, however, he stared at her, horrified.

"Cissa…"

"C'est la vie, right?" she laughed bitterly, picking up her flute and downing the contents. She didn't even grimace at the taste of the flat, cheap champagne. She flagged down another house elf and helped herself to another. She drank that one down as well, before she turned to face him again, her mouth curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes, those haunted eyes that were so like his. "I made him die."

"Cissa-"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't personally kill him. I wouldn't have had it in me. But… I killed him. It was me that caused him his death. Me. Stupid, stupid. They found out Sev was a spy for Dumbledore." She looked up, her eyes wild. "_I_ didn't know, but I couldn't let them _crucio_ him to death, could I? Sev might be a caustic git, but he's my best friend. I had to save him, didn't I?"

Wesley's heart broke just a little. Cissa might have seemed to be the frailest of the Black sisters, but she wasn't, she so wasn't. Those that thought so knew nothing of Narcissa Black. The youngest had steel in her spine, ice in her blood and determination in spades. She had courage aplenty, too, and a good brain in that pretty head of hers. So many took Narcissa for granted, anonymous despite her beauty for so few would recon she would be capable of what she was. She could withstand so much pain, this cousin he thought of as his favourite. Cissa had strength in spades, in that slim body of hers. Strength that none would even guess at. To see her almost broken like this… he hurt. And he knew the wisdom in the PTB for sending him back home. He was needed here, despite the war being over. Or… not quite so over as they wanted to believe it was. He leaned over and took Cissa in his arms, ignoring the fact that they were in a party, in public, just took her into his arms like he had so many times as they were little and even though he knew she wouldn't cry, he held her.

"It wasn't wrong," he finally said into her hair. "It will never be wrong. You made a mistake, my little viper, but your intentions… they were good."

"Is that enough?"

Wesley grinned, crookedly.

"It's good enough for Buddhists." Then he sighed. "It will never be good enough for you, darling. But you would feel as wretched if Sev had been killed instead, and you had done nothing to help him."

"The Dark Lord tortured Luc because I wasn't there, because I turned coat. Wes… they destroyed him. I.." her eyes gleamed just a bit, with unshed tears, and he wondered if she would break down. But Narcissa, despite forming cracks, would not allow for the world to see her shatter. She was prouder than that, she was a Black. Blacks never showed weakness. She lifted that stubborn chin of hers and met his eyes. "They made me identify his body. I… I almost couldn't, Wes. Not because it was him, but because… because there was almost nothing left to work with."

Wesley closed him eyes, and wished that Voldemort was alive so he could kill the bastard with his bare hands. He knew that his cousin, should she know his thoughts, would only smile in amusement and drawl about men's complexity and need for ego rubbing and being so-called protectors to the female race. He knew she was somewhat right, but that was just how he was programmed. They'd hurt his family, he wanted to rip something (or someone) apart. Instead, he sighed and took a flute of champagne from a house elf. He toasted her, then took a hefty gulp, wishing it were whisky, or something equally strong. He remembered they had a bottle of pink brandy at the Black manor. He wondered if that was where Narcissa was living, now.

"I live in Malfoy manor, still," she said, as though able to read his thoughts. She didn't look at him, though, seeming faraway. "Just Draco and I this year. For Yuletide. Not that we were ever the sort that celebrates Yuletide the way it should. But… just the two of us, this year." She then frowned. "Are you staying long?"

"I don't know," he said, honestly. "But… I aspect it shall be quite some time." She nodded, absently.

"You can stay in the manor. I know you haven't met Draco yet (he's my son). We can celebrate Yule like we did when we were younger," she smiled, slightly. "You can have the room near mine. Draco has the right wing entirely to himself. We have the left. We can sit in the library drinking port or cognac and talk about old times. Would that be satisfactory?"

He found he had quite the lump in his throat. Yule with family… he hadn't had that for far too long. He shot Narcissa a smile.

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

"It's quite alright." She looked at him then, shrewdly. "You can tell me all about this Powers That Be business, and answer a few questions I have as to your being here and… alive."

He sighed. He forgot that he'd always believed his cousin should have been sorted into Ravenclaw.

_End ficlet_


	2. Death

Author: Calex

Title: Death

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Dawn belongs to Joss, Dorian belongs to… Oscar Wilde, originally.

Notes: For the TtH FicForAll

Pairing: Dawn/Dorian

Death

"It's cold out here, what are you doing outside?"

How did he do that? Make goosebumps appear on her skin just by being in the same room as she was? It was disconcerting, his effect on her, it made the very air thick with the tension she felt at seeing him, feeling him. He was far too attractive for his own good, she'd always had a thing for his type. He was like Spike and Angelus mixed together in a slightly less sociopathic, but still sinister and sensual package. He was delicious… and she'd always had a soft spot for beautiful things. But not with this one, never with this one. She couldn't fall for this one because he would be far worse to her peace of mind than all of the others put together. She didn't turn to look at him, just looked out into the night sky, arms wrapped around herself to block the cool night air. Hell with "cool", it was freezing, and he knew it. Her breath was forming before her very eyes and there was nothing she could do to hide her shivers. She heard him sigh and closed her eyes, sure that he would leave, now, as he always had done before. Her eyes snapped open in shock as he closed the door behind him… and stepped up next to her on the balcony.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked again, softly. He'd stepped up so he was next to her, not even bothering with the pretence that it was the sky he was looking at, because his full attention was on her. Dawn sighed and her head dropped, stray strands of hair falling into her face and the bareness of her long, smooth neck was bared to him. Out of habit, a hand unconsciously went to her neck, rubbing a scar at the side of it, a tribute of a vamp that had nearly got there.

"I needed to be alone," she said, finally, still not looking at him. There, a not-so-subtle telling him of her need for him to be away. He didn't take the obvious hint, just kept on looking at her, leaning his side against the railing on the edge of the balcony, his ankles crossed elegantly.

"It's unhealthy to be alone," he said, and she shivered again. That voice was sin… and he knew it. He used it to his own advantage, that wonderful voice. She looked up, finally, and saw that his gaze was still on hers and their eyes locked and she felt trapped, frozen, unable to pull away. His eyes were great, bottomless depths of nothingness, a black hole that threatened to suck her soul away. Dawn used every little bit of her strength of will to pull away from that gaze. She was left shaken, though, staring at her hands, her breathing ragged.

"Is anything about my life healthy?"

"Not to the mind, no," he sounded amused. "I can't but say the same for my own as well."

A corner of her mouth went up, and she glanced up again, looking at the full moon that graced the inky black velvet night sky, dotted as it was by the diamond bright stars. For a second, she forgot about him, about the cold, and was lost in a place that was like a land of waking dream, but what she saw or dreamt she couldn't remember, because the very next moment she was jolted by the feel of him sliding his dinner jacket onto her shoulders. She turned large eyes to him.

"Dorian, you'll freeze."

"Invincible man," he reminded her, amused again, but he was starting to shiver. That blue silk shirt of his wasn't any help against the cold of the English December night sky. She shook her head, made the remove the jacket, but his hand on hers stopped her movements. She froze, the feel of his warm skin on hers a shock. He was warm… sometimes it was hard to remember that. She sometimes expected him to be cold, it would suit him better. But no, he was warm, despite his so-called "immortality". He'd died, Dorian Gray, but Wolfram & Hart had needed him, and they had brought him back. And there he was, alive, and helping them. Warm. So warm, and she had not felt the warmth for so long. She shivered under his touch. That hand travelled up her arm, across her shoulder, and finally traced from the outer edge of her jaw to her chin, tilting her face up to his. Subtle seduction, it had been going on for far too long. She didn't know how long she could withstand his brand of seduction before she combusted from the heat that he wrought in her. "You avoid me."

"Do you blame me?" she gasped out, her throat so dry she found it hard to breathe. She made herself swallow, made herself wet that throat so she could speak. She tried to look away, didn't want to meet those eyes because she knew that if she did, the combination of his look and his touch would shatter her into a million pieces, and she was already oh-so-close to the point of shattering. He would allow for none of that, and kept his touch on her chin still gentle, but firm, and so she had to settle with keeping her gaze downcast.

"Dawn," he said softly, and her name rolling on his tongue sounded sinfully delicious. How was it that he could make her body sing just by saying her name like that, his voice husky and low and like warm chocolate sliding over her naked skin. Chocolate… or velvet. They had played the game too far. In a moment of panic that derived from the smallest bit of her mind that was left rational, she realised that this was the point, the end. She'd played with fire when it came to Dorian, though she had resisted. She had brought his attention to her, how she didn't know, but she had and that was enough in his books to say that she'd played with him. And oh the goddess, how he played. She felt like she was drowning. One of his hands rested on her shoulder, then slid slowly, sinuously down to rest just above her breast and she fell. In that moment, with that thought, she was gone. Lost. "Mistletoe."

She looked down, hazily, and sure enough he had pinned a little bit of a mistletoe on the lapel of his jacket. He'd planned this, all along he had planned this. He had probably even known she was going to get away from him by going out by herself. She'd played right into his hand and at that moment, she couldn't care if she did because it was at that moment that his silky lips dropped to hers like a whisper of some divine, sinister being.

Dawn felt like dying. Buffy was wrong, death wasn't her gift; it was a Summers girl's gift.


	3. Niche

Title: Niche

Author: Calex

Rating: FR-13

Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm just playing around with characters that are already there. Dawn's Joss's and Elektra's Mark Steven Johnson and Frank Miller's.

She had roamed the world alone, fighting her fight and trying to find her own place in the world. It wasn't easy, oh hell it wasn't easy but she was determined to succeed. She would _not_ be the pathetic person she thought she was, she would not be the add on to the Scoobies, she would _not _be a hanger on, known only as "Buffy's little sister" or "that freak whose sister blew up the old high school". Buffy might be… weird, but she had her own little niche in the world. Hello, oldest living Slayer (although that was debatable, since she'd died a couple of times) and all that. Buffy and the rest of the Scoobies had their own places, they'd carved out their places and their right in the so-called "Good Fight". What was she if not just someone who was more trouble than she was worth? Being the Key was well and good, if it didn't mean that harm could come upon her loved ones because of what she was. Since it did, so not fun. So not right. So Dawn was determined to go and find her own place in the world.

Buffy'd understood, all of them did. Not to say they were happy with it and everything, cause Buffy still played "overprotective big sister" pretty well. They'd let her go, though she expected it was probably due to Giles pleading her case. Maybe he was one of those that knew best that she needed a vacation, a little time off that would perhaps clear her mind, make her see her worth. Her worth. Dawn's mouth curved a little in a smile that was closer to a grimace. What worth? Book-knowledge, she was pretty sound, she could speak her fair share of languages, but what use was that? What use was all that in the fight? Nothing. She was, as ever, useless. So useless… she couldn't even die, had to have Buffy die for her that one time. _No. _No more, she wasn't going to beat herself up over that anymore. Even while she though that, she knew it was a lie, a lie like everything else in her life, a lie like her very existence. She hated the lies, even while she lived them and sometimes that hurt the worst.

Dawn stood, staring out of the window and her arms were wrapped around herself, fingers digging into her clothes, pulling it tighter around her body, pressing into her curves, denting smooth skin in a way that made it hurt… almost. Just a small percentage, a miniscule amount of pain that attempted to repay the pain she had caused so many others by her mere existence. It was then, lost in her dark thoughts, did she feel the shift in the air. She didn't move, didn't make a sound, but her body stilled, her fingers tightening reflexively. Then she relaxed. The silent figure almost didn't get out of the way of the knife hurled in her direction. Oh, Dawn might not be as good at the fighting thing as a Slayer, but she was still made from Buffy, still had something a little extra. Or perhaps it was a natural talent, something the monks slipped in as an extra line of defence against anything the monsters might set on her. She was quite handy with weapons, namely knives and bows. She was pretty damn handy with a gun, too, but Buffy and the others didn't know that, she'd taken the lessons in private, she knew that there were other monsters in the world other than the ones that the Slayer had to fight off. No, sometimes the worse monsters were the ones that cloaked themselves in normality, in their humanity.

Dawn whirled with her knife, crouching down to a defensive position that also allowed her to move in any direction with ease. She contributed her weight evenly on each leg, her body held still and years of training prevented her assailant from seeing which way she would move. She didn't let out any hint that she would have to. She took that time to survey the woman, for it was a woman who had creeped upon her. Dressed in miniscule red leather with flashing double sided blades strapped to her hip, a short sword in her hand. The woman stared at her coolly, something almost like vulnerability and caution in her dark eyes, long brown hair an ironic echo to her old style.

"Who are you?" Dawn kept her eyes steady on the other woman, making sure that she wouldn't be making any sudden movements. The woman simply stood there, staring at Dawn, an almost faraway look in her eyes. Then she shook her head.

"I never expected you to be so young."

"What?" Dawn sounded shaken at the soft voice, at the words. One hand went for the knife strapped at her wrist sheaths. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

"My name's Elektra." She didn't smile, just watched as Dawn sucked in a shocked breath. Her body betrayed nothing, as did her face, but Dawn knew she betrayed everything. Elektra… here.

"I… I thought you died."

"I did."

"Oh." It was a small sound, echoing the confused child she had been, she still was. "Always thought that was Buffy's speciality." Elektra didn't smile, her eyes ever sad. Dawn gestured to the clothes she wore. "What's with the full assassination regalia? Oh god, don't tell me I've actually pissed someone off bad enough that they'd pay your exorbitant fees to kill me off."

"I thought you didn't know I was alive again."

"I heard rumours," Dawn let out an explosive sigh. "Oh, did I hear the rumours. The ghost who can kill everyone and anyone, they call you The Plague in some places, did you know? Because you're like some cloud of invisible death that kills off everything in your path. You're dangerous."

"I know."

Dawn looked down, hands splayed out and looking at long, neat, i clean /i fingers. How clean. Sometimes they felt dirty, though, dirty from things clinging to her skin that the eye couldn't see, things that left its mark from it's previous tinting. Sin-filled hands, said a psychic she had met in New Orleans, sin-filled hands and eyes that sought redemption. The woman had screamed when she'd touched Dawn's hand, she hadn't known the woman had been an empath. She had huddled in a corner, her hand hugged tightly to her body and her eyes terror filled as she stared at Dawn.

_"Your hands."_

_"What's wrong with my hands?" Dawn looked panicked. "What's wrong with them, what do you see?"_

_"I…" the woman gulped. "I can't.. I… Death." She closed her eyes, screwed them shut tightly. "Death and murder and terror. Pain and love and then back to Death." She lifted her head, lifted her eyes to Dawn and the girl reeled back in shock. The eyes were clouded over, now, and the irises were gone. "Sin-filled hands on a heavy soul. Eyes that fill of the need of redemption, even while the hands taint that chance into oblivion." The eyes suddenly turned back to normal, and the woman looked shaken. "You should go."_

_"But I-"_

_"I said go!" the woman had screamed. "Get the fuck out. Go away and leave me. _Meurtrier_!" Dawn had taken one last look at the cowering woman, then had fled the pretty house in the French Quarter. She didn't look back, couldn't look back, tears blinding her and falling in a hot waterfall down to her cheeks._

"People have told me that I'm dangerous, too," Dawn said softly, her own voice making her blink awake from the half-daydream she had been in, before. She scrubbed a little at hands that even now held the evidence of blood to them…no matter that no other mortal or immortal eye couldn't see them. She scrubbed at her hands harder, nails rubbing raw skin that had once been untainted. "I left because I wanted to find myself. I think I lost my soul in the process."

"Stop it."

"I don't really know how or when it happened," Dawn ignored Elektra's softly uttered command. Almost like a request, really, and requests are easier to ignore. "I mean, one day I'm normal ol' Dawn. Next… next I'm standing over yet another body in some kind of dirty back alley. Blood on my hands. Sin in my hands." She lifted eyes gone bleak. "I tried to use those moves Buffy and Spike taught me to find redemption. I staked a normal guy 'cause I thought he was a vamp, in my first week. I didn't stop. Why stop killing when you've already begun, right?" Desperate laughter bubbled out of her throat and she clasped hands rubbed red raw to her mouth, cupping it closed to stop the sounds from escaping, to stop the sounds from turning into helpless sobs.

"Stop it!" Elektra strode forward, grabbed the girl by her thin shoulders and shook her, forcefully. "Dammit, snap out of it. Stop it right now."

"I don't know if I can," Dawn lifted hollow eyes. "Is this how you feel?" She searched Elektra's eyes and what she found in them made her laugh shortly. "What you _felt_?"

"Maybe." Elektra dropped her hands, mimicking Dawn's earlier pose as she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself tightly because no one else would, no one else could. "Maybe."

"I used to envy you. Want to be like you. Now I hate myself for ever wishing it to happen. For not being happy with what I had. I tried finding my niche, but that didn't happen. Oh goddess," Dawn's knees, weak as jelly now, crumpled under her and she fell to the ground. "Oh goddess." The tears came easily, falling past her tightly screwed eyelids and tracing a hot path down her cheeks. She let out big gasping breaths, pulling her knees under her chin. She knew that once the tears came, it felt like it would never leave. "_Meurtrier_," she murmured. "Murderer."

Elektra dropped to her knees, gathered the girl close to her. She rocked her, while her mind travelled to herself as a child, alone. Travelled to Abby, motherless. The three of them had that in common, at least. Motherless girls, trying to find their own way in the world. Special. In danger. Blood on their hands. Maybe the old man wasn't so crazy after all.

"Stick sent me," she said, gently. "I'm supposed to take you to him." Dawn nodded numbly.

"I can't go back, not like this. Not when I've fallen this low. I…" her voice broke. "I know they won't care, but _I _ will. Oh lord." She easily took the comfort that Elektra gave hesitantly and clung to the older woman. "Please, help me."

"I will." For the first time since the Millers, she would help another girl, another person. "I will." Elektra clung at Dawn just as hard as Dawn clung to her. Maybe Stick had a bigger plan, not only on healing and teaching Dawn, but perhaps healing her as well. It worked, she was going back to that place, wasn't she? It worked. She smoothed back Dawn's hair and felt like she was hugging herself. She wouldn't let this one fall as deeply into the darkness as she had, she wouldn't let it happen. Not again, not ever. She would do whatever she could to ensure that Dawn Summers kept some of her light intact.


	4. Second Chances

Author: Calex

Title: Second Chances

Rating: PG-13 for potty mouth

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Wes and co. belong to Joss, Gillian and co belong to

Notes: For the TtH FicForAll

Second Chances

Gillian was in trouble. Again. Damn her and her bad taste in men, anyway. She thought it would be over with Jimmy, but no. She'd never had Sally's luck in finding the right man for her, either way. Sally had had two loves, she'd had none. Sally had two gorgeous daughters, and she'd had… none. Gillian couldn't stay home forever, Sally's successes were enough to choke her, blind her in her envy. Oh, she loved her sister dearly, and her nieces and her aunts. She liked her brother-in-law and her coming nephew, but… Gillian needed her space. The very thing that had driven her out was making her itch once more, the need to run. She didn't belong here, in this sleepy little town where everyone thought they knew everyone else. This town held bad memories, for her. This was where she had been sent when her parents had died, this was where her childhood was filled with ignorant children picking on her and Sally for their… difference. Their uniqueness. Then Jimmy'd come after her, here. Oh, of course there had been good memories as well, it was inevitable. It was also inevitable for good things to happen, like the people living here realising that they weren't going to suck the life out of babies or whatever rot witches were supposed to do. They were good. Well, they weren't evil, at least. They were wicked, not evil.

Gillian knew she was brooding, but she couldn't help it. That itch was coming on strong, now. There was just… too much that could be happening, but wasn't. She wasn't one to sit still as the world went by, Gillian was a do-er. Sally was the thinker of the family, the one gifted with the power. Oh, she had her little bits of power, she was psychic after all, but… not like Sally. She couldn't spellcast like her sister. Her power was in what already existed, she couldn't make things. Oh, she could do the little things, like light a candle by blowing on it. It was the first trick a witch learnt, and the last forgotten, after all. But otherwise… she bent things to her will. Just a little. Her power was mediocre but Sally… Sally was power personified. It had always irked her how Sally had the power, but did not use it. Sally had always wanted to be _normal_. Gilly knew it couldn't happen, she'd been the one who had decided to embrace her difference. But Sally wanted to cling to humanity, normality. Gilly was ready to become the wicked witch of the west… without the warts or the nose. Or the unattractive clothes. Or the melting. Well, fine. She was just ready to become a wicked little witch, because she was already a wicked little girl. Sally was the angel.

She sighed, sitting with her knees pulled against her chest, and her chin resting on them. She had a boyfriend, a new one. A man that was no good for her, as Sally'd said. And everyone else. But she couldn't help herself, he was delicious… and also a complete bore. All he wanted was a trophy girlfriend, but Gillian didn't want to be a trophy girlfriend anymore. She'd had enough of that, but she couldn't tell that to Hank. The man was a sleazy a-hole, but he was a good looking sleazy a-hole with lots of contacts and blackmail over her head. He was going to ruin her career. Gillian had started to paint, and was quite successful at it. Hank would threaten to tell the world about her thinking she was a witch. It would ruin her… and Gillian couldn't allow for herself to be ruined. Why did she always find the bad ones? Hank Summers was no different than Jimmy, just a big bully. He just didn't hit… yet.

Hank had come to the town on business. Something about wanting to scout the area for something to do with his company. Hell, she wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. He might be easy to look at, but he was boring as all mother fucking hell. And if Sally heard that little curse in her head, she would berate her in that horrible "mom" tone she had. Gillian rolled her eyes. Gillian wanted to get out of here, away from Hank, away from the town, away from her perfect sister…. But she couldn't. Hank wouldn't let her. The asshole. Well, she'd already said mother fucking hell, why not asshole? A-hole just didn't have the same satisfactory ring to it that asshole did. And she was a woman who liked her curses. In the literal sense and the language sense. Oh, curses. She could curse him. Warts on his… man parts, maybe. That would be interesting. Plus, it'd get her out of sleeping with him. His technique was getting… sloppy, lately. She didn't quite feel satisfied. He fucked like a teenager who just wanted to do it so that he wouldn't be thought of as gay. Ergo, lifeless. Now, at least. He used to fuck as enthusiastically as a man who realised the wonders of his extra equipment.

Ah hell, Gillian wrinkled her nose. She'd just stop it right there. The images was not good, she kept seeing people from her high school. It wasn't pretty, considering the guys she knew, then. And the hair. Ugh. It was a slight disturbance in the air that made her stiffen slightly, so that her body was almost utterly still and only her hair, free of any constraints, danced in the breeze like flames. Someone was getting in on her alone time. How… not nice of them. She frowned.

"This was a private party."

"I'm sorry to be intruding, then."

The voice was British. Yummy. Gillian couldn't help her curiosity as she turned her head to look at the man that stood near the edge of the cliff they were on. He was tall, tanned from a holiday, maybe? He had scruffy dark hair that was tousled by the wind, and steel rimmed glasses that hid haunted blue eyes from her. He was attractive… in this rough edged way. Well, he actually looked like he used to be spotless, once, but he'd been roughed pretty badly. There was a scar that went all the way across his throat. She gasped at the sight and he turned to her, seeing her eyes fixed on that point. He smiled humourlessly.

"See anything interesting?"

"I… I didn't mean to stare," she stammered. It was disconcerting, it looked like someone had went to some trouble to slit his throat. Her hand involuntarily went to her own smooth throat. He smiled humourless once again at seeing the action.

"It's alright. I'm getting used to it."

"I'm sorry," she was still staring. Gillian made herself shake it off. It was impolite, and despite popular belief, she did have manners. It was only whether she wanted to use them or not, and this man didn't do anything to deserve impoliteness.

"Someone got a little knife happy," he supplied, abruptly. She was startled, even though she'd guessed. It stretched a little too far for it to be a shaving incident. Despite wanting to believe that, she wasn't _that_ naïve. "I managed to live."

"I hope whoever did that is dead."

He only smiled, but didn't answer, his eyes all dark and haunted again. He turned away, looked down the cliff to the rocks below with the waves crashing into them. The silence was uncomfortable, after what he had revealed. He was only a stranger, yet he'd opened up that much. It made her wonder how people had treated him. Finally, to break the all too uncomfortable silence, she smiled up at him.

"I'm Gillian."

"Wesley." He looked at her. She couldn't look away. She wondered if this was what Sally had felt when she saw Quinn. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she wondered if it was as loud to him as it seemed to be to her. She forgot about sibling rivalry, forgot about jealousy and she forgot about Hank and the urge to run. She forgot everything but the stranger in front of her. When she first felt the cold drop, she thought it was rain. She jumped up to her feet. But it wasn't. It wasn't raining. She held out a palm and looked in delight as a snowflake drifted down onto it. She looked up at Wesley, grinning in absolute unabashed delight and he couldn't seem to help but smile back at her.

"First snowfall of winter," she said in awe. "I've never seen it snow, here."

"Miracles happen," Wesley murmured, his eyes still on her. She felt heat infuse her face, and wondered whether his statement was towards the snow or… something. She didn't want this attraction to be one sided, please let it not be one sided. She smiled to him, suddenly shy. She, shy. She held out that hand with the snowflake on it to him and he didn't even hesitate to take it. It seemed natural. And that spark she felt when her skin touched his… she took that as a sign. There were no sounds of insects chirping. The curse on her family was broken. She was free to fall in love. She hoped this man really was worth it. Impulsively, she decided to take him home.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked, softly. "I live two minutes away."

He smiled at her. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You're not. You won't be." She ducked her head a little, then looked at him through lowered lashes. It was not designed, she felt nervous. She so wanted him to come. She wanted Sally to meet him. She wanted the family to meet him. She wanted them to tell her that she was as right as she felt in her heart she was. He nodded his acquiesce and with a brilliant smile at him, she tugged at his hand slightly and the two of them walked towards her home, their hands still linked and her heart lighter than it had been in years. She had her second chance.


End file.
